“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Zoe asked. “It’s very important.”
Dr. Mumbi checked his watch. “I need to get back to the wards, but I can spare a minute or two.” He gestured toward the door. “Come. We’ll find a more comfortable place.”
He led them through a maze of hallways and up two flights of stairs to a tiny conference room furnished with a table and chairs. Though drab in every respect, the room was blessed with a window that admitted the late afternoon sunlight.
Dr. Mumbi took a seat and pointed at the book in Joseph’s hands. “That is the student registry. May I see it?” When Joseph handed it over, he scanned the pages. “I don’t know why, but I remember Charity quite well. She was one of those students you love to teach: intelligent, motivated, she seemed to absorb everything.”
“Do you know why she dropped out?” Zoe asked.
Dr. Mumbi stared at the ceiling. “I recall only that it was abrupt. I don’t think she ever gave me an explanation.”
“Do you know where she lived when she was in school?”
He nodded. “She stayed with an uncle in Dambwa North. I think his name was Field.”
“Where in Dambwa North?” Joseph asked.
Dr. Mumbi closed his eyes. “I don’t remember the street, but I have a vague recollection that there was a large tree in the yard—a mopane, perhaps. I gave her a ride home a few times.”
Zoe traded a glance with Joseph. “Let’s go talk to Field.”
They found Charity’s uncle with minimal effort. Every person in Dambwa North seemed to know about the house with the giant candelabra-shaped tree in the front yard. A man was sitting outside the door, eyes closed and arms hanging limply at his sides. Zoe saw half a dozen packets of tu jilijili—the cheapest alcohol in Zambia—crumpled up beneath his chair.
“They should ban that stuff,” she said, walking toward him. “It’s worse than moonshine.”
“If Prohibition didn’t work in America,” Joseph replied, “here it would be a joke.”
He shook the man’s shoulder. “Field,” he said. The man stirred and drool escaped from the corner of his lips. Joseph shook him harder. The man finally opened his bloodshot eyes. He scrunched his face and mumbled something, then closed his eyes again. Joseph shook his head and knocked on the door. After a moment, a woman peered out. She and Joseph exchanged words in Tonga, and she opened the door wider, glancing at Field.
“Ugh,” she said, switching to halting English. “Tu jilijili very bad.”
She ushered them into a sparsely furnished sitting room. A Zambian news program was on the television, but the sound was muffled. Zoe and Joseph took seats on a couch while the woman fetched a bowl of tubers from the kitchen.
“Chinaka,” she said, gesturing at the bowl. “Tea?”
Joseph took a tuber and politely declined the beverage. When Zoe followed suit, the woman sat down on a sagging chair beside the television and fidgeted nervously with her hands.
“Are you Field’s wife?” Joseph asked in English.
She nodded. “He from my village. Not so drunk then.”
“Perhaps it would be easier if we spoke Tonga,” he said.
While Joseph questioned the woman, Zoe studied her body language. Neither pretty nor plain, she had the open manner of a village girl, yet her face was lined and timeworn. As soon as Joseph mentioned Charity, the woman tensed. She stared at her hands and twisted her wedding ring. Her pain appeared in the cadence of her words.
“What is she saying?” Zoe whispered.
“Be patient,” Joseph replied.
The exchange continued until the sky outside lost the last of its light. Zoe chewed the chinaka and listened to the muted voices of the television newscasters discussing the presidential campaign. President Banda had accused the Patriotic Front of inciting violence in the rural areas. Michael Sata had lashed back, accusing Banda of ineptitude and corruption. Politics is the same everywhere, she thought. It’s just that the West is more practiced at hiding the ugliness.
After a while, Joseph stood and said, “Let’s talk outside.”
Zoe followed him to the truck. Looking up, she saw the constellation of Scorpio stretched out across the night sky and Sagittarius, the archer, locked in pursuit. She had never been superstitious, but the celestial clash felt like a portent of things to come.
“Field is Charity’s uncle,” Joseph said when she slid into the passenger seat. “Apart from two cousins, everyone in her family is dead—parents, aunts, siblings. Her grandmother was the last in line. She died about five years ago.”
“Was it AIDS?”
Joseph navigated the truck onto the street. “Agatha—that’s the woman’s name—said it was TB, pneumonia, and cerebral malaria, but the pattern suggests HIV for everyone but the grandmother. Charity’s father drove a truck between Tanzania and Johannesburg. He was the first to go. She had two younger brothers who died before the age of five. When her mother died, she went to stay with her grandmother. Two cousins came to stay with them later.”
“I’ve read about families being wiped out by AIDS, but I’ve never met one.”
“Charity lived here in nursing school,” he went on. “Agatha didn’t like it.”
Zoe remembered the way the woman had tensed. “Why not?”
“She thinks Charity’s family is bewitched.”
“Because of all the death?”
“She said Field didn’t drink much before Charity came. She’s convinced the girl brought a curse upon her home. She tried to get her to leave, but Field didn’t want her to.”
I wonder why, Zoe thought. “Does she know why Charity dropped out of school?”
“Her grandmother had a stroke. Charity had to get a job to provide for her cousins.”
“Did Agatha say anything about how Charity became Bella?”
“That’s the hole in the story. When she moved to Lusaka, she never made contact with them again. Agatha didn’t know about Kuyeya. She didn’t know about Charity’s death.”
“Where are her cousins? They’re the last link to her past.”
Joseph glanced at her. “The older one, Cynthia, lives with her husband. Her brother, Godfrey, stays in the Copperbelt. The other is in Mukuni Village.”
“Where Charity’s grandmother lived,” Zoe replied, recalling a passage from her journal.
He nodded. “I thought we would go there tomorrow.”
Zoe closed her eyes, undone by Charity’s story. It was trauma enough to lose my mother. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my entire family. She touched Catherine’s ring and the memories flooded back. New Canaan, Connecticut—August 6, 1996. The ringing phone had woken her just after three in the morning. Clouded by sleep, her mind had attributed the sound to the burglar alarm. She had listened for her father’s footsteps, but she had heard his voice instead. His words were a murmur in the still August night: “Hello? Yes, this is Jack Fleming.” Then came the crash. She ran down the hall and found him on his knees, the phone broken beside him.
It was the only time in her life she had seen him cry.
Chapter 12
Livingstone, Zambia
September, 2011
The next morning after breakfast, Zoe and Joseph drove south toward Victoria Falls. Traffic on the main road was sparse, and Joseph pushed the truck well beyond the speed limit. On the outskirts of town, they came across a herd of elephants crossing the tarmac. The bull elephant, a regal beast with yellowed tusks, stood sentinel as cows and calves passed over, leaving behind a forest littered with broken trees.
Just before the entrance to the falls, they turned left onto a dirt road that led into rural pastureland dotted with homesteads. Apart from a majestic baobab tree just off the road, the rolling landscape was mostly bare of vegetation. The village appeared suddenly, its collection of rondavels and modern buildings sprinkled across a hillside taller than the rest. The roads were active with foot traffic, but few vehicles were about.
They d
rove into the village center and parked next to a sprawling acacia tree. Zoe was about to ask how Joseph intended to find Godfrey when a handsome Zambian woman wearing chitenge made her way toward them, her dress billowing in the wind. Joseph rolled down the window and greeted her.
“I am Margaret,” she said in fluent English, “the village guide. Are you here for a tour?”
When Joseph explained that they were looking for Godfrey, she looked disappointed. “He works at the falls. He usually leaves just after sunrise.”
“What does he do there?” Zoe asked.
Margaret scrutinized her. “He sells tickets. Why are you looking for him?”
Thinking quickly, Zoe replied, “We have news from his cousin, Charity.”
“You know her?” Margaret looked surprised.
Zoe nodded. “In a manner of speaking.”
Margaret brightened. “I knew their grandmother, Vivian, well. She was a good and wise woman. While you’re here, would you like to see where Godfrey stays?”
Zoe traded a glanced with Joseph. “Why not?”
They climbed out of the truck, and Joseph handed Margaret twenty thousand kwacha. “For everything you know about Godfrey’s family.”
The woman smiled broadly, flashing her large white teeth. “This way,” she replied.
They walked some distance into the village. Eventually, Margaret stopped outside a collection of huts and pointed. “Vivian used to stay there. Godfrey stays in the one next to it. He is the last of his family in the village.”
“When did Charity leave?” Zoe asked.
“She shifted to Livingstone for secondary school,” Margaret replied.
“Do you know why she moved to Lusaka?”
Margaret pursed her lips. “Vivian got sick and couldn’t make her baskets anymore. She told me a man offered Charity a good job.”
Zoe was instantly curious. “What man?”
Margaret shrugged. “Ask Godfrey. All I know is that he was wealthy.”
“Does the name Jan mean anything to you?”
Margaret looked puzzled. “I remember it, but I don’t know why. Sometimes we have white doctors who help in the clinic.”
“Do you know how long Charity kept the job in Lusaka?”
The tour guide shrugged. “She sent money until three years ago. That’s when Godfrey obtained his twelfth-grade certificate. Other than that I can’t say.”
So no word of Charity’s life as a prostitute ever reached the village, Zoe thought. “Did you know she had a daughter named Kuyeya?”
“A child? No! How old is she?”
Zoe shook her head. “We’re not sure.”
“What do you mean? Why don’t you ask …?” Suddenly, Margaret understood. “Is Charity dead?”
Zoe nodded. “She died a couple of years ago.”
Margaret looked confused. “You said you had news from her.”
Zoe glanced at Joseph. “The news is about Kuyeya,” she said. “A few weeks ago, she was raped. We’re prosecuting the man who did it.”
When the words sank in, Margaret’s expression turned bleak. She looked out over the rooftops of the village and then spoke again. “There was once a medicine man who lived near Vivian. After her husband died, the nganga raped her. She told the chief, but the chief sided with the nganga. When Vivian’s children died young, people said the nganga had cursed her family. Now only Godfrey and Cynthia are left.”
Zoe noticed that Margaret’s words had unsettled Joseph. “Do you really believe that?” she asked. “That the deaths could be linked to witchcraft?”
Margaret responded indirectly. “I am a Christian. I do not visit the ngangas. But there is a proverb I have heard. ‘A riddle made by God has no solution.’ I think that about Vivian.” She paused. “Godfrey is a good boy. I pray that God will let him live a long life.”
Zoe shivered in the breeze. “So do I.”
They drove to the falls in silence, the only sounds in the cab generated by the truck and the wind. As they approached the river, the air lost its restlessness, becalmed by the dense thicket of forest surrounding the cataracts. Joseph parked in the lot beside a line of stalls offering everything from woodcarvings of rhinos, elephants, and giraffes to malachite jewelry and tribal drums. They made their way to the ticket office and joined a line of tourists waiting for admission to the park.
“I came here when I was a boy,” Joseph said. “My father wanted us to take pride in Zambia’s wonder of the world.”
“I was ten when I came the first time,” Zoe replied. “My mother brought me. We stayed on the Zimbabwe side.”
Five minutes later, they stepped into the ticket office and saw two Zambian men and a woman dispensing tickets and guidebooks. Zoe moved toward the younger man. “Are you Godfrey?” she asked.
He glanced nervously at the older man. “Yes.”
She placed a pair of fifty-pin bills on the counter, more than enough to cover the cost of tickets. “I know you’re busy, but I need to talk to you about your cousin, Charity.”
His eyes widened. “Do you know how she is? We haven’t heard from her in two years.”
She nodded, keeping her expression neutral. “When can we meet?”
“I take a break at ten o’clock,” he said, handing her tickets and maps. “I’ll find you at Knife Edge Point.” Then he turned to a Chinese couple standing behind them and acted as if the conversation had not happened.
After browsing in the merchant stalls, Zoe and Joseph followed the signs to the Knife Edge trail. Before long, the thick tangle of forest gave way to loamy grass, and Zoe caught sight of the Eastern Cataract across the chasm. The majesty of so much water roaring over the edge of basaltic rock and plunging into the Zambezi far below took her breath away.
She followed Joseph along the edge of the cliff, taking care not to slip. The only protection against a deadly fall was a thin wooden railing. They crossed the Knife Edge Bridge in single file, Joseph in front and Zoe behind. The bridge spanned a deep cleft in the gorge. The drop was at least three hundred feet. On the far side, they scaled a long stretch of rock steps to the top of a knoll and then descended the hill to the windy perch that was Knife Edge Point.
Not seeing Godfrey, Zoe walked to the railing and looked down the gorge toward the cloud of mist that obscured the main falls. She remembered the first time her mother had brought her here—Catherine’s exuberance in the rainforest across the river, the way she had skipped beneath the dripping trees and squeezed Zoe’s hand when they saw a rainbow arching over the falls. Zoe had been cool toward her mother at first, resentful of her frequent absences and constant traveling. But Catherine’s joy had softened her heart and left an impression that Zoe could still feel after twenty years. It was on that trip—in this place—that she had fallen in love with Africa.
She turned around and watched the path for Godfrey. Joseph stood beside her, leaning against the railing. Tourists milled around them, chattering in different languages. Suddenly, Zoe narrowed her eyes. A man was looking toward them from the crest separating Knife Edge Point from the bridge.
It was the man in sunglasses.
“Do you see that guy at the top of the hill?” she asked Joseph. “He was on our flight yesterday. I saw him watching us at the Lusaka airport.”
“I’ve seen him before,” Joseph said. “He’s been following me around ever since I arrested Darious.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I sent a picture of him to Interpol. I haven’t heard back yet.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” she demanded.
“He hasn’t done anything. I didn’t think it was important.”
She shook her head. “I don’t like it when people hide things from me.”
He gave her an inscrutable look. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pointed. “There’s Godfrey.”
Zoe turned and watched as Charity’s cousin slipped by the man in sunglasses and walked down the path. When he reached the
railing, he regarded them carefully. “Who are you?”
Shelving her apprehension, Zoe made introductions.
“How do you know Charity?” he asked.
“I know her daughter. We’re trying to help her.”
His eyes went wide. “She told us she didn’t have a child.”
Zoe’s heart sank. Even Kuyeya she kept hidden from her family.
“How is she?” Godfrey went on. “It’s been years since we talked.”
Zoe spoke frankly. “She died in 2009. I’m very sorry.”
He stood motionless for a moment. “Was it TB?”
“How did you know?”
“She coughed a lot on her last call. Why didn’t anyone contact us?”
Zoe returned his gaze. “We didn’t know her then.”
Now it was Godfrey’s turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?”
Zoe gave him an overview of the investigation, including their visit to Mukuni Village. When she finished, he gripped the railing and looked toward the falls.
“My family has endured so much,” he said with sudden bitterness. “They say we are bewitched, did you know that? All because my grandmother accused an nganga to the chief.”
Instead of responding, Zoe offered him a tether to the present. “You can help us. You know more about Charity than anyone else.”
“My sister, Cynthia, knows more,” he said. “But I can tell you she didn’t have a daughter when she left for Lusaka. That was in 1996. Kuyeya has to be younger than fifteen.”
Zoe studied him. “How do you know?”
“She couldn’t have hidden a child from my grandmother. A pregnancy, maybe, but not a baby.”
“Do you think she was pregnant?” Zoe asked.
He shrugged. “My grandmother did. She was certain the man who took her to Lusaka was the father. She could think of no other reason why Charity left nursing school.”
Zoe was incredulous. “I thought she went to Lusaka because she needed a job.”
“That was her excuse, but my grandmother didn’t believe it. Charity’s mother had a good job in Livingstone before she died. She left behind a savings account that paid for Charity’s schooling. It’s true my grandmother had a stroke. But we could have survived.”
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 13