Dying to Live

by Michael Stanley

  * * *

  SAMANTHA STOPPED IN front of the small house on Mmaseroka Road, not far from the police station, and went to the front door, which was standing open.

  “Dumela?” she said loudly. “Dumela?”

  There was no reply. “Mma Ramala, are you there?” Still no reply.

  Samantha walked around to the back of the house. There she saw a woman hanging clothes on a piece of cord, one end attached to the house, the other tied to a scrawny tree.

  “Mma Ramala?”

  The woman turned around and glared at Samantha.

  “Are you the policewoman?”

  Samantha nodded. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. Can we talk inside?”

  The woman finished hanging a pair of jeans, then walked inside, beckoning Samantha to follow her. She pointed to a chair. “Sit there.”

  “Mma Ramala, may I have your full name, please? For the record.”

  “I’m Dipuo Ramala.”

  “Are you married to Botlele Ramala—the man who is missing?”

  “Yes. And why did it take so long for the police to do anything?”

  “Mma Ramala…” Samantha tried to answer.

  “I phoned three days ago to say my husband was missing, and you only come now. It’s true what they say, that the police don’t do anything.”

  “Mma, if we investigated every missing person report right away, the whole police force would be running around not paying attention to other crimes. In about—”

  “If it was your husband missing, the police would do something right away.”

  “No, mma. About ninety percent of people reported missing return within three days. That’s why we don’t do anything right away.”

  “But my husband is an important person. ‘Kgosi,’ they call him, because he is chief among witch doctors. When he goes missing, something bad has happened.”

  “Mma, it’s because he’s so important that we waited. We expect someone like your husband to be in great demand all over the country. We thought someone needed his powers, and he didn’t have time to contact you.” Samantha wondered if she was laying it on too thickly. “But now it’s three days, we’ll do all we can to find him and tell him that you’re missing him and that he should return to his home.”

  Mma Ramala sat quietly for a few moments. “Would you like some tea?” she asked brusquely.

  “That would be very nice, thank you.”

  * * *

  AFTER MMA RAMALA had poured the tea, Samantha continued. “You told me on the phone that your husband left home on Thursday morning and didn’t return home on Thursday night.”

  Mma Ramala nodded.

  “Has that happened before?”

  Mma Ramala paused before answering. “Sometimes, but not often.”

  “Where had he been? When he didn’t come home?”

  Another pause. “He said he was helping a patient.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Of course I believed him!” she snapped. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Do you have a good relationship with your husband, mma?”

  “What are you saying? That he’s gone off with another woman?”

  “Not at all, mma. All I’m doing is trying to understand your domestic situation. When he left on Thursday morning, what sort of mood was he in?”

  “As always—very positive about what the day was to bring and the people he was going to help.”

  “And the two of you hadn’t had a fight or something like that?”

  “No. Everything was fine.”

  “Please tell me about your husband’s work, mma. What does he do? Who are his patients? And so on.”

  “Well, he grew up near Shakawe. You know where that is?”

  Samantha nodded.

  “Then you know it’s close to Tsodilo, which is an important place for the Bushman people. His father was also a traditional healer—Botlele prefers to be called that, rather than a witch doctor—and spent a lot of time with them to learn about the desert plants they use for healing and so on. My Botlele worked as an apprentice to his father and eventually became a well-known healer also. When he moved to Gaborone about ten years ago, many people came to him to ask for his help. They were successful in their careers, but wanted to remain healthy and live to be very old. That way, they could have money and be able to enjoy their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

  Samantha frowned, her anger at how witch doctors exploited people’s desires and fears starting to well up.

  “His father had told him of a plant that slowed down aging and allowed people to live much longer. For many years he wasn’t able to find it, but about three years ago he found a source. Then his business grew quickly, and he became well known for it, and people started calling him Kgosi because of it—because he was the best of the healers and also because he was very fair in how much he charged for his medicines.”

  “Do you know what the plant was or where he got it from?”

  “He never told me exactly, but he said once that he’d found another healer who had it. My husband said the man didn’t know what the plant was for, so he was able to get it cheaply.”

  “Do you know who that person is?”

  Mma Ramala shook her head.

  “And did your husband ever make muti from human body parts?”

  “Oh no! He would never do that! He said you couldn’t be a real healer if you killed people.” She shook her head emphatically.

  Samantha wondered whether Mma Ramala was just saying that because it was prudent to do so, or whether her husband actually believed it.

  “Mma Ramala, did your husband say where he was going or who he was seeing on Thursday?”

  “No, but he did say he had a meeting in the afternoon that could make him a lot of money.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t say who he was meeting?”

  “I’m quite sure, but he was excited about it.”

  “Have you tried phoning him?”

  Mma Ramala nodded. “Of course. Many times. It goes straight to voice mail.”

  “Does he have an office or does he work from here?”

  “He has a small office at the Africa Mall—I don’t know the exact address, but you’ll see his posters on the street poles. And the regulars there will also be able to show you.”

  “And one last question, mma. How did he get to his office? It’s quite far. Did he drive or take a bus or taxi?”

  “He drove. He has an old, white VW Golf. I thought you would ask, so I wrote the registration number down. And his cell phone number. He’s with Orange.” She handed Samantha a piece of paper. “I took a bus to the Mall yesterday to see if I could find him. His office was all locked up, and I couldn’t find his car either.”

  Samantha thanked Mma Ramala and asked her to contact her if she heard anything. When she reached her car, she phoned the receptionist at the CID headquarters and asked him to alert all police patrols in Gaborone and the surrounding areas to be on the lookout for Ramala’s VW. She also asked him to contact Orange to see if they could locate Ramala’s phone and provide a list of all calls made and received over the past four weeks. That information could be very useful even if Ramala reappeared, she thought.

  * * *

  SAMANTHA’S NEXT STOP was the Africa Mall, a higgledy-piggledy collection of small shops and street vendors. And sure enough, many of the street poles had posters advertising Kgosi Ramala’s proficiency and wares. At the bottom of each poster was an address and a telephone number—the one Mma Ramala had given her. She pulled out her mobile phone and dialed the number. As Mma Ramala had said, it went straight to voice mail. She left a message, asking for an urgent return call, but didn’t expect to get one.

  Then she walked to the address on the posters. The door to the small office was closed and locked. She knocked loudly but there was no response. She looked for a window, but there wasn’t one.

  “Dumela, rra,” she said to a nearby street vendor. “Have you seen Rra Ramal
a today?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I think it was last Thursday—in the morning. He came in as usual at about nine o’clock. Then he went out again just before lunch.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  The man shook his head. “He doesn’t tell things like that.”

  “Do you know if he took his car?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know, but he walked towards where he usually parks it.”

  “Where’s that?” Samantha asked.

  “It must be up that road somewhere. That’s the direction he comes from every morning and where he goes at the end of the day.”

  Samantha thanked the man and walked up the street. She spent about fifteen minutes fruitlessly searching it and surrounding streets for Ramala’s white VW Golf. As she was walking back to Ramala’s office, she saw a patrolling squad car and flagged it over. After she’d identified herself, she asked the two policemen in the car if they could help her open Ramala’s office door.

  One said he knew the caretaker of the building and would go and find her. About ten minutes later, the two arrived back, the caretaker carrying a large bunch of keys. She fumbled through them for a few minutes until she found the one she wanted. Then she opened the door.

  It took Samantha a few moments to find a light switch. When she turned the light on, she wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed or relieved—there wasn’t a body. She walked over to the desk to see whether there was any indication of who Ramala was scheduled to meet on the previous Thursday afternoon. While fiddling through a pile of papers, she came across a calendar, with the whole month showing. There were several entries for the previous Thursday: Jacob Luma and Baruti Moremi in the morning, and Hair On in the afternoon.

  Samantha wrote down the names of the two men, then puzzled over the meaning of “Hair On.”

  Surely that’s not someone’s name, she wondered. And it’s not likely that Ramala was going to have a hair transplant or buy a wig.

  She decided she’d need to check, just in case. Then she flipped back to the previous two months. Ramala certainly had a lot of customers. Only one caught her eye—a Christopher Collins. She wrote down his name too.

  Odd that a white man came to see a witch doctor, she thought. At least his name sounds white. I guess they want to live forever too.

  She poked around a little more but found nothing that gave her any clue as to where Ramala had gone the day he disappeared. So she asked the caretaker to lock the door and went to talk to the neighbors.

  Just to the right of Ramala’s office, three men were sitting on beer crates, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Cartons of Shake-Shake beer stood in the sand at their feet.

  “Dumelang borre,” Samantha said as she approached them.

  “Dumela,” they responded without enthusiasm.

  “I’m Detective Khama from the CID.” She pulled out her badge and waved it in front of them. They looked at her, but didn’t respond.

  “Your neighbor, Rra Ramala, has been reported missing. His wife last saw him last Thursday. Do you remember seeing him then or since then?”

  One of the men replied, “He was here on Thursday morning and left before lunch, but I haven’t seen him since then.” The others nodded in agreement.

  “What was his business?” Samantha asked.

  “Aaii. You don’t know?” The man looked at the others. “He was a healer—an important healer. Perhaps the most important one in Gaborone.”

  “What did people come to see him about?”

  “People saw him for many things, mainly sickness, and he was famous for his muti. In the last year or two, people came to see him because they wanted to live longer. They believed he had the power to push death into the future.”

  “What happened that he suddenly became famous for making people live longer?”

  “He told us that he had found a magic ingredient for his muti,” one of the men replied. “Soon many powerful people were here to see him—many politicians and businessmen. He must have made many pula.”

  “But he didn’t show it,” another chimed in. “He didn’t like to show off. He stayed the same even after he became famous. Sometimes he would even sit with us and have a beer.”

  “Did he ever talk about what he found that made people live longer?” Samantha asked.

  “No, he never talked about work.” The man paused. “We’ll miss him if he doesn’t come back. Not everybody has a famous man next door.”

  The others nodded.

  “Can you think of anything unusual about him or the people who came to see him? Something that was odd or out of place?”

  The men looked at each other and shook their heads. “He was just an ordinary man,” one said.

  “What about his box?” another asked. “That was a bit strange.”

  “What box?” Samantha perked up.

  “He always carried a small box. Looked as though it was made from stone. He had it when he arrived in the morning and took it home when he left at night.”

  “Even when he went out during the day…”

  “Do you know what was in it?” Samantha asked.

  “No…”

  “But that was the only time we saw him angry.”

  “He was having a beer with us,” another chipped in, “and I asked what was in it. I leaned down to pick it up. He lost his temper and shouted that if I ever touched it, I would die.”

  “We were all shocked. We’d never seen him behave like that.”

  “Did you ever find out what was in the box?”

  The men all shook their heads. “Never,” one said. “We were too scared to raise the subject again.”

  Samantha took out her notebook and noted their names and contact information. “Thank you all. Please could you write down who you remember came to see him. They may have some more information. I’ll come back this afternoon to collect the names. Also, please contact me if you see him or hear anything about him.” She gave each of them one of her cards.

  She was about to walk off, when she stopped. “Did he have any unusual visitors recently that you noticed?”

  All three shook their heads.

  It seemed that Rra Ramala had indeed disappeared without a trace.

  I hope he stays that way, Samantha thought.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Any word on that VW Golf?” Samantha asked the man at reception when she returned to CID headquarters.

  The man shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

  “Please try to find phone numbers and addresses for these four people: Jacob Luma, Baruti Moremi, and Christopher Collins.” She paused. “And someone whose name may be … Hair On.”

  The receptionist raised his eyebrows. “I’ll phone you when I have them,” he said.

  Samantha nodded and went to her office.

  It was only a few minutes later when the receptionist buzzed her with the numbers of the first two men who had seen Ramala the previous Thursday. However, there was no Christopher Collins in the phone directory or at directory assistance, and there was no person with the last name On, nor one with the name Hair.

  “Damn!” Samantha cursed out loud, even though there was no one to hear her.

  What did “Hair On” mean? she wondered. And was Collins just a gullible tourist?

  She sat for a few moments, then picked up the phone and dialed the first number.

  “Rra Luma? This is Detective Khama of the CID. Is this a good time to speak to you? I have a few questions.”

  Samantha explained why she was calling and, for the next few minutes, quizzed the man about his relationship with the witch doctor Ramala. He confirmed that he’d visited Ramala the previous Thursday to buy some muti that would make him live longer.

  “Many of my friends swear that they’re much healthier because of him,” he said. “They all expect to live to over one hundred. I want to do that too.”

  “Do you
know what’s in the muti, Rra Luma?”

  “No. He doesn’t say.”

  “How did he give you the muti?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see him prepare it? Or was it ready when you arrived? What sort of container was it in? You know, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay. After I paid him, he took a small jar. It was painted black. He poured what looked like a little water into it from a glass jug. Then he opened another jar—it was much bigger—and added a little liquid to the water. Finally, he opened a little box and took something out with a teaspoon and put it into the jar. Then—”

  “Was the box made from stone?” Samantha interrupted.

  “Yes. It looked like it.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “When he added the stuff from the box to the jar, he muttered something I didn’t understand. As though he was casting a spell on it.”

  “Then?”

  “Then he lifted it above his head with both hands and closed his eyes. After a minute or two, he opened his eyes and handed me the jar. He told me to take a tablespoon of the muti twice a day for a week.”

  “That’s all you had to take?” Samantha asked, incredulous.

  “Oh no. I have to repeat this every month for two years. Then it’s finished.”

  “May I ask how much this costs?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Detective. Kgosi Ramala gave me a special price. He asked me not to tell anyone because then everyone would want the same arrangement.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Samantha said.

  “I promised not to tell. I’m afraid the muti won’t work if I do. I can tell you it was expensive. But it’s worth it.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes, happy that Rra Luma couldn’t see her.

  “One last question,” she said. “We found another appointment on his calendar, for later on the Thursday you saw him, for a person whose name appears to be Hair On.” She spelled it out. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I’ve no idea who that could be.”

  After she had hung up, Samantha repeated the process with Baruti Moremi, with the same results. Yes, he’d visited Ramala to get some of his anti-aging muti, and no, he had no idea who Hair On was or what “Hair On” meant. He, too, had been given a special price, not to be divulged to anyone.