by Layton Green
“The people at that ceremony were kumusha—rural. How are you going to find them?”
“I don’t know, go to the villages?”
“That’s not practical. And they wouldn’t talk to you anyway.”
“They’ll talk to you.”
“A Ministry official? I think not.”
“Addison and Taps aren’t villagers,” he said. “They were there. There could be others like them.”
“As I told you last night—no one at that ceremony will want to be found. If you want to help Mr. Addison, don’t waste your time trying to find someone that was present and who may or may not know something.”
“Then that leaves Addison’s connection to the ceremony. Someone told him about it. I’ll look into that angle, and set up a meeting with Professor Radek tonight.”
“There’s someone I’d like to speak with before we meet with the Professor. If you’re free to accompany me, perhaps we could meet at your Embassy at seven?”
“I can make that. Who’re we going to see?”
She fingered the cross at her throat. “Someone who knows Juju.”
• • •
Grey left, and Nya allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t her nature to self-congratulate, but she’d played her part well. She had the feeling Grey would find what she needed. He was young, but had a competent air to him, and she recognized a quality in him she knew all too well, because she possessed it herself.
Dominic Grey was a survivor.
Thank God the other one hadn’t taken the lead in the investigation. Nya didn’t think she could stomach working with him. She knew his type—the ones who think their first-world currency, their privileged status as a Westerner, gives them instant ascendancy over the native people. Their dollars or their euros or their yen allow them to enter the best clubs, eat nightly at the most expensive restaurants, partake in as many sordid pleasures as their hearts desire. They become imbued with an innate sense of superiority, as if they’d been entitled to their newfound status all along, but had never been in the right place. And, in the true spirit of the colonialist, their underlying insecurities breed a cruel and callous spirit which keeps their humanity at bay, allowing them to enjoy their stay in their new fiefdom without the annoyance of a conscience.
Those were the ones that stayed. The good ones always left, saddened by what was taking place in Zimbabwe, frustrated by their inability to effect any real change.
She drove through the city center, staring straight ahead as had become her custom, unwilling to assault herself with the daily reality of Harare. Still, glimpses of her tortured city were inevitable.
She navigated Julius Nyerere, Second Street, and then Angwa, memories seeping through the open window. Although not yet crumbling, the city possessed a pallor of decay not present in her youth. Harare had been new, clean, vibrant: Africa’s hope and Zimbabwe’s pride and joy. It was electric. Apartheid had been shattered, and though its vestiges still haunted Zimbabwe, most of the people, and especially the youth, embraced the new Zimbabwe with surprising camaraderie. New jobs had been abundant, education state-sponsored and excellent.
She remembered afternoons licking honeycomb-coated ice cream cones underneath the Westgate Pavilion, surrounded by her friends, the multi-colored children of her parent’s diplomatic set: other Zimbabweans, Egyptians, South Africans, Swedes, Irish, Ghanaians, Danes, Americans, Indians, Portuguese, the shy twins from Dubai—there had been so many. The late night forays to Avondale, Café Europa for grappa, mingling at the Archipelago and Turtles, snacks at Nando’s before heading to the wine bar beneath the Monomotapa Hotel.
Now she passed lifeless indoor shopping malls, drove down the empty, jacaranda-lined avenues that once brimmed with shops, tourists, and other signs of an emerging economy. She gripped the steering wheel. All that happiness, all that potential—all wasted by the same regime that ushered it in. Lust for power, paranoia, greed—she didn’t care what had gone wrong, what initiated the downward spiral that had turned the beloved Zimbabwe of her youth into yet another African cliché. No, she had no sympathy whatsoever. She just knew she couldn’t bear it.
Her assignment for the day was all too familiar. She was to assess the conditions in Mbare, a township on the periphery of town, one of the next potential targets for the government’s despicable urban cleanup project which consisted of the indiscriminate razing of slums. She swallowed as she drove, trying to control the lump that sprouted in her throat as she looked upon the makeshift shacks of corrugated aluminum stacked one upon the other.
Squatters huddled in tiny dwellings made of cardboard, using them as shelter until the rains ruined them. Sanitation, electricity, running water and other trappings of modernity were either absent or shakily rigged together in desperation. Dysentery and cholera were a constant fear, scrounging for drinkable water and food a daily task. Children in rags ran from the government-plated Land Rover, staring at her as if she were an alien species. Pock-marked feral cats and dogs slinked into far corners of the nightmarish maze.
She shook with rage and impotence as she drove the entire length of the slum, stopping only at the AIDS orphanage on the outskirts to drop off the food staples and used clothing she’d brought.
She felt for the cross again, out of habit, but she stopped her hand with a vengeance. God had done nothing to relieve the misery of these people. And the people in this slum cried out for Him far more than the bastards who were letting her country implode.
She wanted to take off the cross, but couldn’t. Her father had given it to her, and he wouldn’t be giving her another. Not ever again. Yet another reason to break that habit.
She would make her report. She’d give her superiors exactly what they had asked for: an accurate accounting of the further tragedies that would befall these people should their pathetic homes be stripped from them. She’d let them know the exact consequences of their actions, and she’d do it in the neutral, dispassionate tone for which she was known at the Ministry.
She regained her composure only after she’d left Mbare far behind, wiping away a tear that even her capital self-control couldn’t rein in. Her thoughts returned to her other assignment, watch-dogging the Americans. Her government was aware of the Juju movement, principally because of the potential for bad press, but it wasn’t a priority.
She had to be careful; she sensed Dominic Grey was clever. He could be helpful to her, but she had to mind her step, and he mustn’t be allowed to suspect the reality of the assignment.
He mustn’t know why she was really helping him find William Addison.
7
Harris kicked his feet up on his desk, lit a cigarette and put his hands behind his head. “So what’ve you got for me? Addison crawled out of his hole yet?”
Grey sat in an uncomfortable metal chair facing the desk, neither slouched nor rigid, but with a relaxed poise capable of immediate action. “His girlfriend has no idea what happened to him.”
Grey summarized the meeting with Taps. Harris exhaled through the open second-story window behind him. “That’s the biggest bunch of horseshit I’ve ever heard. Trying to get anything done in the third world is like trying to fry bacon with olive oil. Look, find the dealer, and he’ll lead you to Addison.”
“I don’t think they were on drugs.”
“Then what? She was telling the truth? A curtain of fog rose up out of the ground and swallowed him? That’s great fieldwork, Grey. I’ll be sure to pass your hypothesis on to the Ambassador, and then the President.”
“She’s upset and confused. I’m just keeping you up to date.”
“You should’ve brought me a violin as well.”
Grey took a deep breath. “We need to find out how Addison knew about the ceremony. Apparently it wasn’t common knowledge. Whoever told him about it might know something.”
“Better. Any ideas?”
“I was hoping you could help. Do you know who his friends were, places he frequented, anyone who might
be able to tell me something?”
“The Ambassador, but I’ve already talked to him, and he doesn’t know anything. Other than the Ambassador and the girlfriend…” He shrugged. “Check out his apartment, maybe you’ll find something there.”
“What’s the address?”
Harris scribbled on a legal pad and handed the top sheet to Grey with a smirk. “How’s the partnership with our little vixen going? Had a chance to get to know her yet? See her unprofessional side?”
“After we visited Ms. Chakawa, Nya asked me if I wanted to stop by her place and become a little better acquainted.”
Harris perked up. “She did? What happened?”
Grey rolled his eyes and stood.
“How should I know? You can never tell in these countries.”
“You need to stop visiting so many brothels. It’s given you a warped view of male-female relationships.”
“Are we on this again? Prostitution is no different than dating—what do you think you’re buying dinner and drinks for? Charity? And don’t even get me started on marriage. It’s legalized slavery in these countries, and not much better in the States.”
“I prefer the old-fashioned way. Drinks, conversation, no one pays for sex.”
“Prostitution cuts to the chase, and saves you decades of misery. It’s a better deal for everyone involved.”
“Sure thing, Harris.”
• • •
Addison’s building manager, after Grey explained the situation and produced identification, had been happy to help, smiling and bobbing at the request.
Grey found the Shona incredibly warm people, ready smiles and laughing eyes omnipresent despite Zimbabwe’s troubles. He wanted a bottle of the genuine joie de vivre many of the Shona seemed to possess.
Addison’s condo evidenced a lifetime of travel and a bachelorhood of means. It was free of clutter, but lacked the warmth of a woman’s touch. A spiral iron staircase separated the kitchen from the rectangular living room in which Grey stood. A carved bookcase fronted one of the long walls, a stocked wine rack the other. Art and collectibles from around the world filled a curio cabinet. A leather couch and two overstuffed chairs rounded out the room, each covered with the animal-skin throws that seemed to grace the home of every ex-pat in Africa.
Grey paused in the kitchen, empty except for a sink full of dirty dishes. He took the stairs to the second level and found himself in a red-themed master suite that belonged in a harem. A king-sized bed strewn with pillows dominated most of the room, and a few items of clothing had been tossed at the foot. Silk sheets slipped away from Grey’s touch when he drew them aside.
Grey went through a walk-in closet, a trunk of clothing, and a mass of scarlet curtains concealing an empty balcony overlooking the street. He moved to the bathroom and found nothing of interest. He sat on the edge of the glass-enclosed bathtub and drummed the glass as he thought.
He eyed the bedroom again. He walked over and picked up a pair of slacks at the foot of the bed. He checked the pockets, hoping for a receipt, and found a book of matches. There were only three stubs; Addison had just picked them up.
He turned the matches over and read the name printed on the back. Club Lucky.
It was worth a look.
• • •
Grey called to see if Nya could meet him at Club Lucky. He got her voicemail and hung up without leaving a message. Searching the apartment of a U.S. citizen without Nya’s permission was one thing, investigating a lead in downtown Harare another. He weighed his options, then started walking towards the club. Time was of the essence. Besides, it’s no crime to have a beer and see what a place looks like, and she’d put it on him to ask around about Addison.
Grey followed the address on the back of the matches to Bank Street, on the southwestern side of the Central Business District. By the time he reached his destination the scenery had changed for the worse. He was on a corner, and he peered down the south side of the intersection at the unruly sprawl of Chinhoyi Street.
Shredded flyers flapped on the sides of brown and decaying buildings, trash littered the street, tilted street lamps and buzzing neon lights awaited the cover of darkness. A block down, men crowded the balconies of the beer halls and seedy clubs that lined the street, spending their few worthless Zim dollars forgetting how they’d had to scrounge to get them.
The nondescript establishment on the corner was one of a casual collection of bars and desolate retail stores, most of them unmarked. Some of these places, Grey knew, catered to the kind of clientele who wanted to avoid both the dangerous desperation of the streets further down, as well as the prying eyes of polite society. This entire area of town fell far short of the respectable look cultivated and enforced in downtown Harare. Stripping the disenchanted of all their outlets is asking for an uprising.
Grey’s guard went up as soon as he opened the wooden door to Club Lucky and saw the topless young girl dancing around one of two poles on a stage in the far corner. Strip clubs were illegal in Harare. They existed, but were either well hidden or the owner had a government official in his pocket. Club Lucky, even though it didn’t sport a sign, wasn’t that well hidden. That meant someone had been paid off, which meant the law pretty much didn’t apply inside.
The smell of stale beer and sweat permeated the dark, windowless, low-ceilinged room, and Grey caught a whiff of vomit. Dingy tables clustered in front of the stage like swarming flies. An open doorway led into a hallway on the left side of the room.
Four men with their backs to Grey sat at one of the tables near the stage, laughing and watching the girl writhe around the pole. They hadn’t noticed him come in; the Kwaito music thumping through the room made it difficult to hear.
Grey let the door close the final few inches, sealing him inside.
8
Grey chose a table halfway between the stripper and the door. Room to maneuver, but close enough to the entertainment not to appear suspicious.
An emaciated girl with a glazed look in her eyes stepped out of the hallway and approached him, clad only in a thong. She asked what he wanted to drink without meeting his gaze, and Grey’s mouth compressed. She likely had AIDS, or Slim, as the locals called it. The place no doubt served as a brothel also. In a country where the AIDS rate was estimated at upwards of twenty per cent… insanity.
He ordered a beer and decided to ask her when she came back if he could have a word with the manager. The song ended. Another with an identical beat took its place. One of the men swiveled, probably looking for the waitress, and noticed Grey. He stared at Grey for a moment, then nudged the man beside him, who whispered to the next one over.
They stood and turned towards Grey, and he swore. They were younger than he’d thought, teenagers, and they were wearing green drill trousers and tank tops. The shirts bore the insignia of the ruling political party, ZANU-PF. Their clothes and teenage faces marked them as members of the “Green Bombers,” the party’s youth brigade.
Grey had been briefed on the Green Bombers. In an effort to politicize the youth, the government had set up militia training camps, offering regular meals and a stipend to anyone who signed up. For those who were starving in the streets, no real choice existed. And in certain areas of the country, those who didn’t sign up were kidnapped and forced to attend.
The camps became a modern horror story. With no real supervision or system of accountability, brainwashing, violence, and rape became commonplace, and innocent village boys turned into morally vacant soldiers loyal to the regime. The government gave them virtual impunity and sent them around the country to ensure the populace understood the wisdom of voting for ZANU-PF. They weren’t that visible in Harare, and usually stuck to harassing members of the opposing party.
At least, so went the conventional wisdom.
Grey felt for these boys, and seeing their pack mentality raised unpleasant memories. When Grey had roamed the streets of Tokyo to escape his father’s drunken rampages, he was on constant guard aga
inst the violent street gangs that controlled the city’s underbelly. He wasn’t the easy target they expected, but there were always far too many of them. Grey had to choose between the gangs and his father’s fists. At least the gangs had known when to stop.
The one in front, a stout youth and clearly the leader, took a swig of his beer and wiped the back of his mouth with a forearm thick with muscle. As he approached, Grey positioned himself with his table at his back, and with a couple of chairs cutting off the approach to his right.
The leader stepped to Grey, until his face was inches away. He stank of alcohol-drenched pores. “This is the wrong club for you,” he said, a beer bottle dangling from his right hand. The other three stood a few feet behind him, arrogant grins lifting their faces, arms folded.
“I only came in for a beer.”
“No beer here for you, murungu. Or anything else.”
Grey wasn’t going to risk a scene when he wasn’t supposed to be investigating in the first place. “Then I’ll find someplace else.”
The leader leered. “This is a good idea, hey? Before you go, leave the wallet on the table. Some beers for our troubles.”
Grey reached into his pocket and slid out his wallet. He opened it to his identification, then snapped it shut and returned it to his pocket. “Diplomatic immunity.”
“You’re hard of hearing? I said wrong club. No immunity for you in here.”
“I meant for anything that happens to you,” Grey said, soft enough for the leader alone. The leader paused, and while Grey saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes, he knew the leader would lose face if he walked away.
“I was told I could find,” Grey’s eyes flicked to the stripper, “entertainment.”
“I said private party. No murungus.”
Grey rose. “Then like I said, I’ll go someplace else.”
The leader grabbed the front of Grey’s shirt with his left hand, tensed and readied the bottle in his right. He leaned in even closer, his breath fetid from tobacco and alcohol. “Leave the wallet.”