At lunchtime, Joseph announced that he was in the mood for nshima, and Zoe smiled at him, taking the hint. They drove down the street to Pamela’s, a favorite haunt of attorneys in the government quarter, and strolled across the grass to the outdoor buffet. A Zambian matron took their orders and spooned nshima, chicken, groundnut relish, and collard greens onto plates. After paying for the food, they sat at a table on the mostly empty lawn.
“Where is everyone?” Zoe asked, looking around.
“There were riots in Ndola. I heard it on the radio. PF thinks MMD is rigging the election in favor of Banda. I imagine a lot of people stayed home today.”
“Has there been violence in Lusaka?”
Joseph shook his head. “The compounds are restless, but nothing yet.”
“They need to declare a winner,” she said in exasperation.
They ate for a while, enjoying the sunshine and silence. Eventually, Zoe asked, “What are you going to do until we hear from the DPP?”
He finished off a bite of nshima, and then said, “I’m going to talk to some ngangas about HIV. I’m also going to talk to people in Kanyama outside Abigail’s neighborhood. I think Darious knew his way around the compound. Otherwise, he would have left Kuyeya closer to Los Angeles Road. He’s got a flashy car. If I’m right, I’ll find someone else who saw it.”
She frowned, only partly in jest. “Your job is far sexier than mine.”
He grinned. “An interesting choice of words.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
His expression turned serious. “If you want something to do, I have an idea. I handled a case a few years back. Two adolescent boys lured a girl into their house and raped her while their parents were away. After they finished, they threatened her and let her go. She was brave, and she was lucky. Her family took the case to the police, and the post commander gave it to me.”
The tale turned Zoe’s stomach. “Did you get a conviction?”
“We did. A neighbor saw the girl go into the house. Her testimony convinced the magistrate. I’ve been wondering what Darious did with Kuyeya between the time he picked her up in Kabwata and the time he dropped her off in Kanyama. Five hours is a lot of time.”
“You think he took her somewhere.”
Joseph nodded. “I’m wondering if he took her home.”
She gave him a dubious look. “He did a near-perfect job of covering his tracks. Why would he commit a crime on his own property?”
“Because it’s the one place he can completely control. I haven’t been inside the walls, but I would guess he has a separate house or a wing to himself. What if his parents were gone? What if he took her home and did the deed and then drove her into Kanyama? The neighbors and the guards wouldn’t have seen anything. There’s only one person who might have seen something.”
“Who?”
Joseph smiled. “Their housekeeper.”
“How do you know …? I mean, I’m sure they have one, but it’s a monumental guess.”
He shrugged. “You may be right. But you handled Doris so well I thought you might be interested in talking to her.”
“How do you propose I do that?”
“Wait outside the house until she leaves. I’m sure she takes a regular trip to the market. Someone drives her, but I’d be willing to bet she shops alone.”
At once Zoe felt fear. “Why would she talk to me?”
“She might not. But you could get lucky.”
After a moment, Zoe nodded. “I’ll talk to Mariam.”
When they returned to the CILA office, they found it deserted, except for Sarge who was sitting in the conference room typing on his laptop. He looked up at them and said, “There was violence in the Copperbelt. The office is closed until the election is announced.”
“Why are you still here?” Zoe asked, feeling anxious again.
“I have a hearing in the High Court next week. I have to finish the brief.”
Leaving Sarge to his computer, Zoe followed Joseph outside. At once she realized how quiet it was. Situated near the center of one of Lusaka’s busiest districts, the office was usually awash in street noise. This afternoon it was as serene as a botanical garden.
“Well,” she said, “I can’t offer you a river cruise, but I do have a pool.”
“A swim sounds nice,” Joseph replied. “As long as you have a radio.”
They returned to Zoe’s flat and spent the afternoon lounging by the pool along with half of the residents of the complex, all on temporary leave. When the shadows grew long on the grass and the sun disappeared into the trees, Zoe invited Joseph to a makeshift dinner of ham sandwiches and apples—all she had left in her refrigerator. Afterward, they retired to the living room to watch movies, keeping Zoe’s iPhone tuned to the ZNBC news broadcast.
The hours marched on without an announcement. When the credits began to roll at the end of District 9—an alien invasion film set in Johannesburg—Zoe yawned and checked her watch. It was past midnight. She was about to make a trip to the bathroom when she heard the voice of Chief Justice Ernest Sakala of Zambia’s Supreme Court come on the radio. She turned off the TV and increased the volume on her iPhone, holding her breath as Sakala began to recite the vote count.
“Michael C. Sata of the Patriot Front: 1,170,966 votes. Rupiah B. Banda of the Movement for Multiparty Democracy: 987,866 votes. Hichilema Hakainde of the United Party for National Development: 506,763 votes …”
Zoe turned to Joseph and heaved a great sigh of relief. “It’s over, thank God. And PF has nothing to complain about.”
Joseph gave her an enigmatic look. “The people wanted change. But they chose another old man to lead them. I wonder what they will say about Sata in four years.”
Zoe imagined President Banda sitting in his palace, contemplating the end of two decades of MMD rule. How many of his friends had benefited from his patronage? How many in his government now feared for their livelihoods? She had a terrifying thought. He still had the military at his disposal. In Africa votes were paper things, no match for men with guns.
“Will Banda concede?” she asked. “What if he uses the army to force a recount?”
Joseph looked at her quizzically. “What is this worry? You are usually so confident.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling strangely vulnerable.
He shrugged. “Who knows what will happen? But life will go on. The President doesn’t make the world turn.”
This simple reassurance found deep purchase in Zoe’s heart. Her pulse increased, and she scooted closer to him. She couldn’t remember the last time she had responded this way to a man. All of her previous relationships had been transient things, inspired more by passing attraction than by compatibility or genuine passion. Watching her girlfriends receive rings and walk down the aisle, she had often thought that something inside her was broken. Every time she pictured herself in their place, she felt Clay Randall’s hands driving her into the sand. With Joseph, however, she felt safe. His dark eyes were only kind.
She placed a hand on his chest and leaned toward him. He grazed her cheek, and his touch made her shiver. Just before their lips met, she closed her eyes, wondering what it would be like to take him to her bed.
Suddenly, she felt fingers on her lips. “Not yet,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes. “Why?” she whispered.
He searched her face. “Good things should not be rushed.”
She didn’t know what it was that restrained her, but the anger she felt passed as quickly as it came. If he wants to wait, I can wait, she thought, nuzzling into him.
After a while she led him to the door and kissed him chastely. “Be safe tonight.”
“This was a good day,” he replied, and turned toward the stairs.
That night Zoe had one of the most vivid dreams of her life. She was standing on Los Angeles Road in Kanyama watching the gang leader in the green bandana and a hundred other kids celebrate PF’s victory when a convoy
of trucks rumbled to a standstill, carrying soldiers with AK-47s. Shouts were exchanged and then the army opened fire on the revelers. As the street filled with bodies, the gang leader leered at her and said, “The fun is only beginning.”
In the morning, Zoe awoke with a sense of dread. She opened her MacBook and checked ZNBC, certain that the night had been consumed with violence. What she found astonished her. Rupiah Banda had called a press conference and was expected to deliver a concession speech. She read the story in disbelief, marveling that such a bitter contest could end without bloodshed.
After breakfast, she called Mariam and learned that the CILA office would reopen at noon. Remembering Joseph’s suggestion the day before, she pitched Mariam about approaching the Nyambos’ housekeeper. Mariam hesitated at first but eventually agreed.
“Please be careful,” she said. “If anything happens, phone Joseph right away.”
Zoe dressed quickly in jeans and a pullover, drew her blond hair into a ponytail, and put on her sunglasses and a baseball cap. She looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head. The glasses hid her blue eyes, but otherwise her Caucasian features were impossible to miss. She grabbed her backpack off the floor and stuffed it with enough reading material to occupy her for a few hours. Then she locked her flat and drove her Land Rover out of the gate.
It took her barely a minute to reach her destination. As she had done before, she pulled to the shoulder as far from the house as she could without limiting her view of the gate. She studied the guard sitting outside the wall. He had the same muscular physique as the night guard, but he didn’t seem as intent on his duties. He was leaning back in his chair, absorbed in a newspaper.
She took out her iPhone and pulled up another satellite image of the property. She had given little thought to the outbuildings before, but now she studied them carefully. The larger one sat beside the driveway and resembled a garage; the smaller one stood beside the outer wall in the shade of a tree—probably the housekeeper’s cottage. The cottage faced the rear of the house and had a direct line of sight across the pool to the larger outbuilding.
She sent Joseph a text, letting him know where she was.
His reply came swiftly: “Watch the guard. If he gets suspicious, leave. Call if you need backup.”
She looked down the street. The guard had not budged from his seat. She switched on the radio and lowered the volume. She wanted to hear Banda’s press conference but none of the commentary. She took out her copy of Swann’s Way and immersed herself in Proust.
Around nine o’clock, President Banda came on the radio. Zoe listened as he addressed the nation. There was an undercurrent of sorrow in his voice, but his words were generous and conciliatory. He spoke with deep feeling about the country that had elected his archrival to replace him, and he prevailed upon all Zambians to ensure a peaceful transition.
When he concluded, Zoe had tears in her eyes. Never before had she heard an African politician concede defeat with such dignity. Names flashed through her mind: Idi Amin, Joseph Mobutu, Charles Taylor, Muammar Al-Gaddafi, Robert Mugabe—the self-appointed dictator kings of Africa. The list was long and littered with the dead. By presiding over an orderly transfer of power, Banda had not only prevented carnage in the compounds, but he had also refuted the cynic’s song that Africa was an irredeemable land.
Zoe was so enthralled by the moment that she almost missed the Toyota sedan leaving the Nyambos’ property. She blinked in the bright sunlight and realized what she was seeing. Two people were in the vehicle: a man in the driver’s seat and an older woman in the back, dressed in chitenge. The sedan turned left out of the gate and headed in the direction of Bishop’s Road. She keyed the ignition and fixed her eyes on the guard, fearing the sound of the engine would attract his attention. But he seemed oblivious to her.
She accelerated up the lane and kept pace with the sedan as it meandered through the central suburbs. Ten minutes later, the Toyota turned into the Manda Hill shopping center, an ultra-modern Mecca of African consumerism. The driver nosed to the curb in front of Shoprite, and the old woman left the car with a handbag. Zoe pulled into a parking space and watched the driver puff away on a cigarette. She shook her head, marveling at Joseph’s prescience.
Grabbing her backpack, Zoe entered the store and found the old woman pushing a cart through the produce section. She studied the woman while pretending to examine papayas. Her face was lined with wrinkles, and she walked with a stoop, but her stride was strong.
Zoe moved toward the wall, looking for an opening. Eventually, the woman wheeled her cart toward a case stocked with milk and cheese. The closest shopper was twenty feet away. Now, Zoe thought and crossed the floor, stopping beside the woman.
“You work for Frederick and Patricia Nyambo,” she said quietly.
The woman stiffened. “Who are you?” she asked.
Zoe picked up a liter of milk. “I’m an attorney. I’m helping a girl who was raped.”
The woman looked confused. “How does that relate to me?”
Zoe met her eyes. “We believe Darious Nyambo was the perpetrator.”
The woman glared at her. “I don’t know anything about it.” She placed two liters of milk in her cart and moved toward a table piled high with loaves of bread.
“The girl is young,” Zoe persisted. “She needs your help.”
“I don’t know this girl,” the woman said, placing a bag of bread in her cart, then a package of beef from the meat counter. She turned away and angled toward the front of the store.
Zoe delivered a last-ditch plea. “She could be your granddaughter.”
The woman paused and pain shot through her eyes. “I do not have a granddaughter.”
Zoe watched her walk away, feeling sympathy and mistrust. Given her age and occupation, she was likely a widow and the Nyambos’ employment her sole source of income. In a country without a social safety net, a job was often a widow’s only alternative to destitution. Yet Kuyeya was a child. What woman turned her back on a child?
“Wait,” she said, catching up to the woman. She pulled out a ten-thousand-kwacha note along with a pen and wrote her mobile number on the money. “You can reach me at that number.” Then, almost as an afterthought she added, “The girl’s name is Kuyeya.”
The housekeeper stared at Zoe as if stricken. Her fingers went limp, and she dropped the money on the floor. She bent over to retrieve it and fumbled with the zipper of her handbag. Her mouth opened as though she was about to speak. Then she looked away and pushed her cart toward the checkout line.
Zoe returned to the Land Rover, her thoughts a blur. She had seen something in the woman’s eyes when she spoke Kuyeya’s name, something mercurial and arresting—a glimpse of recognition. She called Joseph and he picked up immediately.
“I talked to the housekeeper,” she said. “I got nowhere when I confronted her about Darious. But when I mentioned Kuyeya, she looked shocked. I don’t understand. Is Kuyeya a common name?”
“Not at all. I’ve heard it once or twice, but only in Southern Province.”
“Do you think Darious took Bella home with him?”
“Not to his parents’ house. He might have treated her like a girlfriend at the bars, but he never would have introduced her to his family.”
Something nagged at the edge of Zoe’s consciousness. “What if the housekeeper knew Bella some other way?”
“Outside of her employment?”
Zoe shook her head. “Not necessarily. What if Bella had some sort of connection to the Nyambo family, not just to Darious? We still don’t know what she did when she got to Lusaka. She came in 1996. The journal Doris gave me starts in 2004. That’s a gap of eight years.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. But where does that get us?”
Zoe let out a sigh. “I have no idea.”
“Look, you did a great job. I’m impressed. Are you coming into the office?”
“Yeah,” she responded, starting the engine. “I’ll see yo
u later.”
She left Manda Hill and drove toward the government quarter. She tried to put the housekeeper out of her mind, but she couldn’t shake the sense that she was missing something. In the early stages of the investigation, her curiosity about Bella’s history had been prompted by instinct. But the more she had dredged, the more links she had discovered between Bella and Darious. It was no longer reasonable to consider the past irrelevant. But what did any of it prove?
She ran into traffic south of the Addis Ababa roundabout and took out her phone. She placed a call to the Nkana Mine and asked for the manager of personnel.
A man picked up. “How can I be of assistance?” he asked, sounding bored.
Zoe introduced herself and explained her business. “I’m trying to reach Mwela Chansa. He works at one of your mines. It’s a family matter.”
The man typed on his keyboard. “I can give you his mobile number.”
She memorized the digits and dialed them. After three rings the line connected and a recorded voice said: “You’ve reached Mwela Chansa. Leave a message.”
“Mr. Chansa,” she said, suppressing her frustration, “this is Zoe Fleming. I met Cynthia’s brother, Godfrey, in Livingstone. I’d like to talk to Cynthia about her cousin, Charity Mizinga. Charity’s daughter is in need of help. I’d be very grateful if Cynthia would give me a call.”
She left her number and hung up. It was another barrier, another waiting game. Why was it that almost everyone who touched the case seemed to have secrets? Bella. Doris. Godfrey. Cynthia. Jan Kruger. Magistrate Kaunda. The housekeeper. The Nyambos. Even Joseph. In a moment of reflection, she realized she had left a name off the list.
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 16