Stolen Life

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Is this Ian’s woman?” the woman asks Shona in Tswana.

  Before Shona can reply, I say in Tswana, “Ian brought me here, but I’m my own woman.”

  Like the nurse, the woman’s eyes flare. “I didn’t expect to see you around here.”

  “What?” I make a shocked face. “You expected me to hang around the lodge all day?”

  She looks me up and down. “The lodge isn’t the worst place to be.”

  No, it’s not. It’s a great place, like everywhere on the farm. I extend a hand, gripping my elbow to show respect. “I’m Cas.”

  She accepts the handshake, gripping her elbow in turn. “I’m Keeya.”

  I motion at the rows of leafy greens. “What are you planting?”

  She shouts at the women who are still looking at me like I’m an alien to go back to work before giving me her attention again. “Whatever is in season.” She sighs. “But we’re not having much luck with the crop this year.”

  I crouch down to inspect the cabbage. The heads are young, but they’ve already split.

  Her shadow falls over me. “We’re not overwatering, and we tested the river water. There’s no diseases in the water.”

  “When did you plant?” I ask.

  “Late November.”

  Harvest isn’t until early autumn—March. I pick up a handful of soil and let it run through my fingers. It’s sandy and red like the Kalahari soil, but the Conquistador cabbage variety that’s popular in the informal markets due to the bigger heads doesn’t mind sandy soil too much. The soil isn’t cracked from dryness or muddy from overwatering. The Zambezi flows over basalt rock. The shores should be alkaline. Cabbage prefers neutral soil conditions, but the weeds growing between the crops tell me the soil may be acidic.

  I look up at Keeya, squinting against the sun. “When did you fertilize?”

  “Late in the season.”

  That could explain why the soil is acidic, if it is indeed the case, and could be why the cabbage is splitting.

  I glance toward the higher end of the field farther away from the trees. Over there, the cabbage heads are still intact. “You could still save those ones.”

  She gives me a startled look. “How would you know this?”

  Shona grins. “She grew up on a farm.”

  Keeya’s once-over is mistrustful. “What kind of farm?”

  “Cattle, maize, and rotating crop vegetables,” I say.

  “Don’t you have fancy tests and soil analysis on those big farms?” she asks. “The young generation can’t farm without a computer program running everything from irrigation to fertilization these days.”

  I smile at the generalization. She’s obviously not a fan of technology, so I don’t point out that she can buy a soil test kit at any co-op that sells seeds. “That’s not how my father taught me.” Straightening, I dust my hands on my thighs. “You have chickens, right?”

  “We already make compost from the manure.”

  “What about the eggshells?”

  “We mix it with bone meal to make fertilizer, but we only use it for the maize.”

  “Try mixing some into the soil here next to the river. Manure compost makes the soil acidic, and so do the roots of the trees on the shore. The calcium in the bonemeal and eggshells should alkalize it.”

  It’s a simple answer, quite uncomplicated, but my dad taught me the most effective solutions are often the simplest ones.

  She scoffs.

  “It can’t hurt to try,” Shona says. Addressing me, she adds, “Keeya is just a hardheaded old cow who doesn’t like to be wrong. She always knows better than everyone.”

  Keeya shoots daggers at Shona but doesn’t respond to the insult. I guess Shona is higher up in the hierarchy, which wins her a certain amount of respect, no matter how grudgingly it’s given.

  As we walk toward the river to inspect the vegetables, Banga plops down onto a rock close to the men who watch the banks for hippos while the women work. We check for insects and signs of black rot, and chat for another while about their rotation practices, after which Keeya says it’s time for the women to take a lunchbreak.

  Shona calls Banga, who comes with sagging shoulders. The visit isn’t as exciting for him as it is for me. He seems to prefer crunching numbers in the coolness of the lodge office instead of trudging behind me over grass polls in the hot sun.

  Instead of heading to the lodge, Shona tells him to go back to the village. We arrive just as a bell rings and children run from the school building, screaming excitedly. Shona waves a boy of around ten years over. I recognize his face. He’s one of the boys who were hiding in the reeds the day I arrived.

  When he sees me, he comes hesitantly.

  “This is Vimbo,” Shona says. “Hop on,” she tells the boy. “We’ll give you a lift.”

  The boy dumps his school bag in the back of the Jeep and climbs inside. We drive to a hut standing a short distance away from the others.

  When we park, Shona says to Vimbo, “Tell your mother I brought a guest for lunch.”

  He runs to execute the command.

  Shona goes ahead to greet a pretty woman in her thirties who exits from the hut. She’s dressed in a long, blue, tie-dyed dress and leather sandals.

  “Welcome. I’m Lesedi.” She offers me a kind smile. “Shona says you speak Tswana, but we’ll speak English if you don’t mind.” She brushes a hand over Vimbo’s head. “My son has to practice.”

  Vimbo rolls his eyes and ducks to escape the caress.

  “I’m sorry for imposing,” I say.

  “There’s always plenty to eat.” She takes my arm and leads me around the side of the hut to a table under a tree with tree stumps arranged around it for chairs. “We’ll sit here in the shade.”

  When Shona, Banga, and I have each taken a seat, Vimbo sits down cross-legged on the ground next to me. Lesedi disappears around the hut.

  A moment later, she returns, carrying two black iron pots. She places both on cork plates on the table and sends Vimbo with a brusque command to fetch plates and cutlery. The boy runs back to the hut and reappears with a tray laid with wooden bowls and carved spoons. He sets the table while Lesedi fetches metal mugs and a jug of ginger beer. She serves each of us a big helping of maize porridge, but when she digs the spoon into the meat stew, I decline.

  “Cas doesn’t eat meat,” Shona explains.

  She smiles prettily. “Do you eat dairy or are you vegan?”

  “Vegetarian, but please don’t put yourself out for me. I haven’t had maize porridge in ages, so this is a feast.”

  She clicks her tongue like she finds the statement ridiculous and goes to a small shed adjoining a chicken coop at the back. Shona and Banga wait politely until she returns with a basket filled with apples, a jar of preserved corn, and eggs before they start eating. Vimbo digs into his food, shoving big spoonfuls into his mouth.

  While Lesedi makes a small fire and fries two eggs in a pan over the coals, Vimbo studies me between bites.

  “Are you going to be Ian’s first wife?” he asks.

  “First wife?” I ask, taken aback.

  “My father has five, but my mother is his first, so she’s his favorite. If you’re first, you can be Ian’s favorite.”

  I stifle a laugh, even if either notion—being Ian’s wife and not being his only wife—is humorous. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Vimbo,” Lesedi chides. “You have to excuse him. He can be very forward.”

  “Ian gives me books,” he says.

  I study his cherub face. “He does?”

  “In English,” he says, pushing out his chest, and then he makes a face. “He tests me on them.”

  “You should be thankful for his kindness,” his mother says, mixing corn and butter into my porridge and serving two fried eggs on top.

  “Thank you,” I say. “That’s very kind of you.”

  She beams. “It’s not every day we have guests.”

  While we eat, the conversation
is amiable. Lesedi tells me about her family who are migrant workers in South Africa and asks where I’m from. Shona teases Banga about never taking a wife because he understands numbers better than women. When Vimbo says he’s good with numbers in school and asks if that means he won’t have a wife, Shona says children should be seen and not heard.

  After lunch, Lesedi makes coffee over the fire by boiling the grounds. We sip the brew while they talk about the animals and what species will need culling during winter. When the adults clear the table, I get up to help, but Lesedi tells me guests aren’t allowed to work. I stay behind with Vimbo as they carry the dishes and pots to the hut.

  When everyone is out of earshot, Vimbo winks at me. “Don’t tell Ian I came to his bungalow.” He adds in a conspiratorial tone, “It’ll be our secret.”

  “Only if you promise to never do it again. It’s dangerous walking across the land alone.”

  He pouts. “I know how to read spoor. I only walk where the animals don’t.”

  I make a stern face. “Still, you’re not to take such a risk again, or Ian will hear of it.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Fine.” A slow smile stretches his chubby cheeks. “If I can’t go there, you must come here.”

  I hold out a hand. “Deal.”

  We shake on it.

  Shona and Lesedi return with Banga on their heels.

  “We better get back,” Shona says. “It’s getting late.”

  I wave at Lesedi. “Thanks again for the lunch. It was delicious.”

  She pulls Vimbo under her arm. “You’re welcome.”

  At the Jeep, I hold out a hand to Banga. “Key.”

  He looks at me as if I’ve asked him to pull out his front teeth.

  Shona laughs. “Let her drive,” she says as she gets into the front.

  Reluctantly, he fishes the key from his pocket and hands it to me.

  He takes the backseat, holding the rifle, and I take the wheel. The engine roars to life. I miss driving. My car has been in the workshop more than on the road. The Jeep is a hard drive, but I enjoy the wind that rips through my hair as I navigate the vehicle down the dirt road. I’m driving a lot faster than Banga’s snail pace. He curses under his breath, grabbing the rail in front of his seat for purchase as he bounces around on the backseat while Shona cackles like a hen.

  Bumpy rides are my favorites. To me, they’re like the sea to a sailor. I’ll take a Jeep and a few potholes over all the rides in an amusement park any day. By the time we arrive at the lodge, I’m elated from the thrill, enough to have forgotten about my concerns for a while. The day out did me good. I was only going to visit the clinic, but the impromptu tour and lunch lifted my spirits.

  “Thank you,” I say to Shona as Banga takes the key and rifle and hurries inside the main building.

  “You needed that,” she says. “People are just another species of animal, and no animal has ever done well in captivity.”

  I doubt she took me on an outing just for my benefit. She’s too sly, too clever. “Why did you take me to have lunch there?”

  “I’ll be honest. When I first laid eyes on you, I didn’t think you’d make it in a place like this. It’s good for a week or so of holiday, but most city folks don’t last out here. Call it a test, but I think Ian is right. You can be happy here.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “I’ve known him for long enough to know that’s what he wants. You’re the first woman he’s brought here. You mean something to him.”

  I consider the statement. Did Ian bring me here to protect or imprison me? Maybe a bit of both. His words from last night turn in my head. Do you want to be exclusive? We could be. All you have to do is say so.

  I don’t want to ask for something that’s not supposed to require asking, and he wants me to fight for it, to prove to him that I want it. Why? Does he really want to sleep with no one else but me, or does he want me to beg him not to fool around just to have more power over me?

  “Don’t let him sleep on the sofa in the office again,” she continues.

  My attention snaps back to her. “What makes you think he slept in the office?”

  “He used the guest bathroom this morning, and he only does that when he spends the night in here.” She waves at the lodge. “If you’re wise, you’ll make the most of the time you have with him.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’re clever, but clever and wise aren’t the same thing. A clever woman like you know men like Ian live short lives. You can’t tempt fate forever and get away scot-free. That’s not how the law of averages work. A wise woman won’t waste what little time fate grants her.”

  Leaving me to mull over the declaration, she walks off.

  Am I willing to lay down my pride in the hope of finding happiness with the man who stole me? How much am I willing to sacrifice for lust and desire?

  The answer isn’t a straightforward or easy one, certainly not as simple as a solution for preventing split cabbage. Still, as I make my way back to my prison, I can’t deny the truth of Ian and Shona’s words.

  I can be happy here.

  Chapter 10

  Ian

  Each of us are four million dollars richer when we make it back to the lodge in Zim three days later. The stealing of the painting went as planned. Piece of cake. Smuggling it out of the country delayed us, but it’s safely in Turkey now with its new owner, and at last, we’re home.

  My quick steps aren’t driven by the need to inhale the fresh air or let the peace of homecoming settle over me. It’s the woman waiting for me. I considered calling her at least a hundred times since I left, but I couldn’t risk leading a trail to her. Now that we’re wanted for murder, the police tripled their allocation both in staff and budget to our case. Interpol is involved, making it more difficult to slip unnoticed across borders. Leon is on the case, trying to find out what he can about the imposters by hacking into the police records and paying our informants for information. I’m not inclined to do the police’s work for them, but it’s in our interest that the fuckers who pretended to be us are exposed.

  It’s early morning, but Banga and Shona are already in. Banga discreetly makes himself scarce, leaving the office to me. I’m eager as fuck to see Cas, but when weapons and crime are involved, duty comes first. The cleanup is imperative. Carelessness leads to getting arrested. Leon and Ruben clean and pack away the weapons while I put half of the cash we made on the sale in the safe. The other half of the payment was made upfront into my offshore bank account.

  I work fast. When I’m done, I send a text message to Oliver, our contact in Zambia, to set up a meeting. I don’t like keeping large amounts of money in the safe. I prefer to disperse the millions in electronic currency as soon as possible. Oliver replies promptly. After discretion, it’s the trait I like most about him. He never makes me wait.

  Shona brings a tray with coffee and rusks, which she leaves by the door for Ruben to collect. She knows when not to disturb us. We drink the coffee while we go over the details of the meeting with Oliver. After checking the security system to make sure everything works smoothly, I’m finally free to get out of there.

  We each grab a rifle from the closet. Leon and Ruben head for their bungalows for a shower while I take the path to mine, but a shower can wait. I have other ideas. My heart pounds as I cross the bridge. When I finally push the door to my bedroom open, my chest is about to explode. I’m hard even before I step over the threshold, and then everything falls flat.

  Empty.

  The room is tidy. The bed is made and the mosquito net tied back. No sign of Cas.

  My heart starts thumping for a different reason. I already know with a deep-seated, instinctive knowledge she isn’t in the bathroom. Verifying it by stomping over the deck and throwing the door open is merely a formality. The towels hang over the rails. No drops of condensation run down the mirror. The bathroom is dry and clean.

  I rush back into the room and check the closet. Cas’
s clothes are there. Only her handbag is gone, meaning she took the most important essentials—her phone, money, and pills. Yanking my phone from my pocket, I dial her number. When the line connects, relief floods me. At least she hasn’t destroyed her phone. By now, she must’ve guessed that’s how I tracked her in Pretoria. Her phone rings for ten long seconds and goes onto voicemail.

  “Call me,” I all but growl.

  In my haste, I fumble with the touch buttons to open the tracker app on my phone. My fingers are too big, fear making me clumsy. I have to swipe the on button twice before I get the app to work. Three seconds tick pass as I wait for the map to load. She can’t get out of the property, but there are a million-and-one places to hide and none that are safe for a man not carrying a weapon, let alone for a vulnerable woman who can’t defend herself against lions, rhinos, elephants, and hippos. A baboon will rip her to pieces. She can step on a scorpion or get bitten by a snake.

  A trickle of sweat runs over my temple. I pace to the door, thanking every god in existence I had cell phone towers installed on the property. It feels like forever before a red dot appears on my screen. My adrenaline spike drops. The relief is so great I feel weak. She makes me fucking weak. I place the location as I rush back to the main building. She’s inside the fenced area, close to the river. Thank fuck.

  I jog the last few hundred meters and skid to a halt in the office. The key for the Jeep is missing. Banga is still out to wherever he’s disappeared. I don’t run around to find staff and pose questions. Cas plus the key gone can only mean she left with the Jeep. My frustration mounting, I grab the Hummer key and climb into the old military model that’s still parked in front of the main entrance.

  The Hummer wasn’t made for speed, but I floor the gas. The vehicle bounces over the rocks and gross polls, its sturdy frame and shock absorbers taking the punch out of the rough ride. I make it to the cattle bridge in the longest forty-five minutes of my life, all the while checking my phone that lies on the seat next to me to make sure the red dot isn’t moving.