The Garden of Burning Sand
Page 10
“Isn’t that what the Bank and the IMF do all the time?” Zoe said, joining in. “They loan money to governments.”
“True.” Clay replied. “But the funds come from nation states, not private investors.”
“Who’s the investor in the Batoka project?”
“Ever heard of Nyambo Energy?” he inquired.
She stared at him. “What’s Nyambo’s interest in the Batoka Gorge?”
“I don’t know the precise terms of the deal. But I have a theory.”
Zoe leaned forward intently. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“You know the story of Batoka, I take it?” he began. “Zimbabwe and Zambia are in crisis mode; there isn’t enough electricity to power the grid. The Zambezi River is the obvious savior, but Zambia won’t invest in another hydroelectric project until Zimbabwe pays off its Rhodesia debt. Zimbabwe threatens to go forward alone, but nobody believes Mugabe has the money to make it happen. In comes Frederick Nyambo with an offer to cover the debt and start construction. Everyone thinks he’s crazy. Why invest in a floundering state like Zimbabwe?”
“Unless the floundering state offers you something you can’t refuse,” she said. “Like a kickback from the sale of power.”
Whitaker looked at her closely. “Or a stake in the power company itself. Zimbabwe is considering privatizing its public utility. If Nyambo were to acquire a majority stake—”
“Then he would be entitled to a large portion of the profits.”
“Exactly. It’s a gambit fifteen years in the making.”
Zoe narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Whitaker folded his hands. “Zimbabwe commissioned its first private power project in 1996. Nyambo Energy was the contractor. When the Batoka project ran into the debt roadblock and privatization stalled, Frederick Nyambo directed the commercialization of Zambia’s public utility as Minister of Energy. The way I see it, he’s been playing both sides of the fence, lobbying the Zambian and Zim governments to divest ownership of the utilities while positioning himself as the heir apparent.”
Zoe was astonished. Frederick Nyambo was either a financial daredevil or one of the shrewdest entrepreneurial visionaries in Africa—or both.
“Anyone need another drink?” Kelly asked, over the din of intersecting conversations.
Whitaker held up his glass. “I’ll take some more red.”
Zoe met Joseph’s eyes. “Will you walk with me?”
They left the yard by the front gate and took the path that led to the pool. The gardens were empty and the dark water still.
“Batoka is near Victoria Falls,” she said. “I wonder if there’s a connection to Bella.”
Joseph shook his head. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence. Frederick’s interest in building a hydro plant on the Zambezi has no relation to his son’s appetite for prostitutes.”
“Can I ask you a question? I want an honest answer.”
“Of course.”
“Will the courts give us a fair trial?”
He met her eyes. “Nyambo isn’t invincible. Every adversary has a weakness.”
She stared at him, wondering at the uncanny symmetry between his words and her father’s so long ago. “Someone once told me the same thing. He called it the Rule of Achilles.”
Joseph smiled. “Whoever he was, he was right.”
PART TWO
A clear conscience fears no accusation.
—African proverb
Bella
Lusaka, Zambia
July, 2004
The air in the bar was warmer than the night itself. So many bodies pressed together on the dance floor, it felt like a pocket of summer in the middle of winter. She was dancing near the center of the crowd, as she did when she was looking for clients. Everyone could see her here. She was wearing red—her favorite color. Her dress was a slinky thing, poorly suited to the cold but a magnet for attention. The song they were playing was new to her, but it had the sort of thumping beat that infused her with courage.
Bella knew everyone at Alpha: the bartenders, the regular customers, and the girls. On Saturday nights, there was at least one girl for every man in the place. The competition was cutthroat, and Bella trusted no one but Doris. The price of a transaction was influenced by many factors: the duration of the encounter, the presence or absence of a condom, the need for a hotel room, and the visible means of the client. To Bella, the client mattered more than anything. She charged foreigners more than Zambians, coloreds more than blacks, Zambians with nice watches more than those without, and so on. The system worked because demand for her services was high. Even at twenty-seven, she was still one of the prettiest girls in the room.
After the song ended, she slipped to the bar and took a bottle of Castle lager from the bartender, purposely avoiding the eyes of the men on either side of her. She was an expert at the game. The men who had money wanted the illusion of conquest—a girlfriend experience. They wanted to believe that the attraction was a shared phenomenon. She put on her bored face and took a small swig of beer, waiting while another pulse-pounding song turned the dance floor into a hive of sweat and motion.
It didn’t take long for a young man to approach her. He was dressed casually, but she could tell he had money from the cut of his leather jacket, the shine of his shoes, and the gold watch he wore on his wrist.
“Hey, honey,” he said in Nyanja, “let me buy your beer.”
Bella had heard the line countless times over the years. When she was younger and still thought the world could change, she had despised it. She had loathed the bars and the men, the exchange of intimacy for kwacha. That part of her—the girl who believed in the future—had eventually died, leaving behind only numbness and need. The come-on meant nothing to her now. It was business, the job that kept Kuyeya and her alive.
“That’s nice of you,” she replied, clearing a space for him.
The man put some kwacha on the counter and leaned toward her, speaking over the music. “A girl as pretty as you, why haven’t we met before?”
She studied him carefully. She guessed he was in his early twenties and a young professional—a lawyer or a businessman. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place it.
She gave him a flirty smile and ignored his question. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” he asked.
“Bella,” she answered, playing along.
“I like that. Tell me, Bella, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He swept his arm across the room. “These men have no refinement, no class.”
His contempt surprised her. Alpha was one of the hippest bars in Lusaka. She touched his arm. “If you don’t like it, we can go somewhere else.”
“But you just started your beer.” He signaled the bartender to bring him a bottle of Mosi, then placed his hand on hers. “I knew another girl named Bella. She was from a village in Tuscany. Do you know where that is?”
“Italy,” she replied swiftly. She wasn’t a simpleton.
He laughed. “How far did you go in school?”
“I got my diploma,” she said, the lie more alluring than the truth. “How about you?”
“I went to university in London.” He gestured with his hand. “Why don’t we sit down?”
She allowed him to take her arm and lead her to a table by the door. The air was colder here, and goose bumps quickly formed on her skin. He surprised her again by wrapping his jacket around her shoulders.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” she said.
He gave her a sly smile. “If it matters so much, why don’t you guess?”
“There are an infinite number of names in the world,” she objected.
“Ah,” he said, “now I know you don’t belong here.”
She feigned a flattered laugh and searched his eyes, trying to figure out his agenda. She was not used to this, the client being in control. She waited until the silence became awkward and then took a guess. “I
s it Richard?”
He shook his head. “But you’re close. It’s the name of a king.”
“George,” she guessed.
“Not a mere monarch. A king of kings.”
“Alexander, I don’t know.”
His eyes glinted in the light. “Most girls bore me. It’s rare to find one who does not.”
She gave him a blank look, suddenly weary of the contest. If he didn’t want to tell her his name, she would give him one: Siluwe. He had the cunning of a cat.
“I have a flat close by,” he said, touching her fingers with his. “I promise you’ll like it.”
She hesitated. As a rule, a girl never went home with a new client. Sex could be had in a hotel, a bathroom, a car. In a private residence, the risk of violence was too great.
“Name your price,” he said, sensing her reticence.
She folded her hands and felt the absence of the ring. She had left it with Kuyeya as she always did when she went out. She looked toward the dance floor, doing a calculation in her mind. She had doctor bills to pay. Kuyeya needed medicine for her heart. There was danger in taking the man’s offer, but danger was nothing new. Any client could turn into a monster.
“A million kwacha,” she said. “For an hour, no more.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she had the thought again that he looked familiar. Something about his eyes, his self-assurance, what was it? She couldn’t figure it out.
At last he gave her a lopsided smile. “Darious. My name is Darious.”
Chapter 9
Lusaka, Zambia
August, 2011
The response team congregated again on Monday morning. Zoe sat across from Joseph, anxious to hear his report. She had left him a voicemail on Sunday asking about his nocturnal adventures at Alpha Bar, but his response had been a cryptic text: “Good things come to those who wait.”
She had replied: “They better be good. I hate waiting.”
When everyone assembled, Mariam looked at Zoe. “I talked to the DPP about Darious’s history with Bella and the incident with Bright. He was guarded, of course, but he’s going to review the case today.” She turned to Joseph. “Zoe tells me you have an update?”
He nodded. “I went to Alpha Bar on Saturday night. I spent time with a couple of girls.”
“I hope you wore protection,” Niza said wryly.
He laughed. “Condoms don’t fit over my ears.” He placed his hands on the table. “The girls go by the street names Candy and Love. They know Darious. He’s a fixture at Alpha. But they don’t go with him anymore. They think he has HIV.”
“Is he on medication?” Zoe inquired.
“They didn’t know, but I don’t think so. I watched him for a while. He has lesions on his skin, and he’s thinner than he should be. He went to the bathroom four times in an hour. He was drinking, but so was everyone else. I’d guess it was diarrhea. If I’m right, he’s pretty far along.”
“How would you know that?” asked Niza.
Joseph was silent for a long moment. “My little sister died of AIDS.”
Even Niza seemed shocked by his admission. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Zoe looked at Joseph with newfound understanding. It explained, in part, why he was so devoted to his work.
Mariam spoke up. “I’m very sorry to hear about your sister, Joseph. But I’m curious about your theory. If Darious has AIDS, why wouldn’t he be on ARVs? This isn’t the 1990s. The drugs are everywhere now, and they’re free.”
“The myths still have power,” Zoe responded.
“As does the stigma,” Sarge agreed.
Zoe nodded. “If a man as enlightened as Thabo Mbeki can question whether HIV causes AIDS, then anyone can question it,” she said, referring to the controversy fueled by Nelson Mandela’s successor in South Africa.
“But Mbeki lost that debate,” Mariam objected.
“You and I know he was wrong,” Sarge said. “But a lot of people still agree with him. The suspicion of Western motives runs deep.”
“Sarge is right,” Joseph said. “Darious may or may not question the science, but I’m certain he’s afraid of what his family will think. My sister was. She didn’t tell me until she was too sick to stand. Even then, she swore me to secrecy. My father thinks she died of pneumonia.”
At that moment, Zoe had an idea. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Kuyeya is a disabled child. The obvious assumption is that she’s a virgin. What about the old myth that sex with a virgin can cure HIV? Darious knew where she was living. Doris saw him a few weeks ago. What if he was lying in wait?”
“Of all the fanciful scenarios,” Niza rejoined. “Darious is too smart to believe in fairy tales. He might be apprehensive about disclosing his status. But to rape a disabled girl in an attempt to cure himself? It’s hard to believe.”
Zoe looked at Niza in frustration. “Bright is proof that Darious has no concern about raping a child. And desperate men are gullible. The other day on the street I got a flyer from an nganga advertising therapy for bad luck, witchcraft, relationship problems, penile enlargement, and AIDS. The flyer was printed in English. It was aimed at the literate. People like Darious.”
“Zoe has a point,” Sarge said.
“It’s frightening, but believable,” Joseph agreed.
“Am I the only level-headed person in the room?” Niza said. “Even if by some vast stretch of the imagination all of you are right, how in the world are we going to prove it?”
The silence descended so quickly it was as if a curtain had been dropped. Everyone stared at Niza until she held up her hands defensively. “It’s a fair question.”
“Granted,” Sarge said. “But we have a way to go before we need to worry about proof.”
“I’ll start asking around,” Joseph offered. “There are a lot of ngangas in Lusaka, but there can’t be many that Darious would trust. If he went to one, I should find out about it eventually.”
Mariam looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s nine thirty. Zoe and Niza, help Sarge prepare the paperwork for co-prosecution. Joseph, put your findings in a report. I’ll get Mwila to contact Dr. Chulu. He should know that Darious may have the virus. I’ll inform you as soon as I hear from the DPP. Let’s hope for a green light.”
The call from the Director of Public Prosecution came a few minutes before three in the afternoon. This time Mariam invited Zoe into her office on the condition she remain quiet.
“This case is very troubling,” said the DPP. “Has the child seen a psychiatrist?”
“Not yet,” Mariam said, “but we’re working to schedule an examination.”
“And her family? No one knows when she was born?”
“We have her physical appearance, and we have Doris who she lived with—”
“Yes, yes,” he interjected. “But the woman’s testimony is pure conjecture. I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’m a lawyer. The weakness is obvious enough.”
“We have other leads,” Mariam said. “We’ll find someone who can tell us her age.”
The DPP sighed. “Mariam, I have great respect for your team. Sarge and Niza are two of the best attorneys in Lusaka. But this isn’t some illiterate criminal you’re talking about. This is Darious Nyambo. His father is a former cabinet minister. His mother sits on the High Court.”
“Look, Levy,” Mariam said, “I know it’s a risk for you. I don’t want to be embarrassed by this either. But we’re in a dilemma. Our case isn’t airtight without DNA, but we can’t get a blood sample without a court order. To get a court order you have to let us prosecute.”
The pause that followed was pregnant with the DPP’s unspoken doubts. “Why didn’t Doris report her daughter’s rape? It could have prevented all of this.”
The question was rhetorical, and Mariam didn’t respond.
“You promise me the samples haven’t been tampered with?” he said at last.
Mariam nodded. “Dr. Chulu is preserving them at the hospital.”
When the DPP granted his consent, Zoe’s heart soared, but her eagerness was not reflected in the faces around the table. Mariam and Sarge were grave, and Niza looked ashen.
“Why don’t you think about it and let me know,” the DPP said, and ended the call.
For a long moment, no one in the room moved or spoke. Zoe held her breath, waiting for someone to break the ice.
“Sarge?” Mariam said at last.
Sarge tented his hands, returning her gaze. “A crime is a crime. I believe the evidence. I’m ready to move forward.”
Mariam turned to Niza. For once the young attorney had nothing to say.
“Niza, look at me,” Sarge said in a quiet voice, waiting until she did before continuing. “This is our chance to do what the politicians only talk about. We can change a life. We can change the system itself. But we need your help. I need your help.”
Finally, Niza spoke. “You know how much my father sacrificed for standing on principle?” she asked in an anguished voice. “He tried to convince Robert Mugabe to end the land-reform program. Mugabe might have had him killed if we hadn’t fled to Zambia.”
“Your father had courage,” Sarge replied. “He couldn’t ignore his conscience.”
As Zoe watched, something changed in Niza’s face. Her eyes narrowed and her jaw tensed with sudden resolve. “Nyambo will treat this as an act of war,” she said, smiling grimly. “If we want to stand any chance of winning, we have to do the same.”
Mariam picked up the phone and held the handset in the air. “Shall I make the call then?”